What's in a name?
by Savasta 101
Summary: Harry, reborn Lyle Evans, was not intending to take his mother's place. Yet somehow, he still exists (paradoxes are odd things), and Sirius Black - should not be nearly so distracting.
1. Chapter 1

18th June, 1996

It was a good night for something bad to happen. The fog wetly clung to them, as the thestrals jerked them up and down, up and down, like a malfunctioning fairground ride. And beneath it all, lurked a sense of wrongness - crackling in the air, and tugging at Harry. He shifted uncomfortably, and Ron noticed. "You all right mate?" he yelled over the wind, and Harry just urged the thestral on in response. Sirius was in danger.

That sense of wrongness practically coated the prophecy, when Harry lifted it from its perch, and then all hell broke loose.

The spells were coming from everywhere and nowhere, Order members and Death Eaters at each others' throats. It was like some warped light show - pretty bluebell beams that slit throats with a spray of blood, and in the middle of it all - Sirius.

"No." screamed Harry, when he saw the spell shooting towards Padfoot, and leapt in front of it wildly, arms flailing. The red ball collided with the prophecy, clutched to Harry's chest, and came out through his back with a deathly chill, something slick coating his insides. And then he was falling, falling through the silvery veil, nestled by the empty loudness and soft whispers. "Harry." said a gentle voice, defined now. "Mum," he tried to say, but could not speak, so Harry reached as though through treacle, for his mum - and collided with something else. Something ancient and old. And then there was nothing.

30th January 1960

Harry woke up - was reborn, he later realised - to bright light that had him blinking wildly, and - for some reason - shrieking like a banshee. There must also have been something in his eyes, because the giant shapes that leaned over him were blurry.

But he could recognise that nasally voice anywhere. "So this is my new brother?" said Petunia - in a familiarly disgusted tone. "But I asked you for a sister." she said petulantly, with a stamp of some buckled shoe, and Harry screamed louder than he ever had before.

His name was Lyle Evans, cooed by a woman far too sweet to have birthed Petunia. And he was trapped, with limbs too weak to move away from his new sister's cruel little pinches, and a head far too heavy to lift.

It was a slow-moving hell, leaving Harry plenty of time to think over his miserable, humiliating existence. He'd never met a sister called Lily, yet months crept by without any new pregnancy, and Harry nurtured an awful suspicion. 'Lyle' was awfully close to 'Lily', wasn't it? And there was just the right age gap between him and the she-devil. Slow tears dribbled down chubby cheeks. 'What had he done?' Harry wondered miserably. What had he done...

30th January 1964

Time only confirmed it. Harry shouldn't exist, he acknowledged, chewing birthday cake to his new parents' delight. He'd stolen Lily Evans' place in the universe, but the world moved on regardless - and somehow, somehow, Harry was still alive. It was troubling: the sort of thing that would delight Hermione, but it just made Harry's head ring. So he focused, selfishly, on the Victoria sponge.

His second childhood, Harry gratefully realised, was going to be far easier than his first. Rose and John Evans were doting parents, and Harry was living the suburban dream. His main problem - aside from a crippling existential crisis - wore polished Mary Jane shoes and tea dresses. It also thought a torturous game of dress-up was the perfect birthday present.

"Stay still." Petunia hissed, tugging Harry's short mop of hair into a ponytail. He knew better than to wince. And then a silk dress was being slipped over skinny limbs, and Petunia plonked him in front of the mirror. "There." she declared in triumph. "Now you look like a proper girl."

Harry didn't really. His knees were too knobbly, and for all Petunia's efforts Harry was still a brother: all sharp edges and a scrappy grin, with a mop of red hair plonked on top. "Thanks." he muttered, with the genuineness of Lucius Malfoy, and his aunt - sister. Beamed.

It was an odd expression to see - softening her face, until Petunia looked remarkably like an actual child, and Harry could almost forget the bony, harsh visage that would take the place of happily-flushed pudge. Almost. But eleven years in a cupboard bred a strong grudge.

Harry was jerked out of his thoughts by a small hand, soft and cold, wrapping around his even smaller one. "Come on." ordered Petunia. "We're going to show you off." 'Showing off' turned out to mean being dragged in front of their parents, Rose oohing and aahing with fond amusement, and John shooting them a look of disapproval over his newspaper, though with a glimmer of laughter in his eye.

Harry posed, awkwardly, for a polaroid photo: Petunia standing next to him, chest puffed out with pride, and Harry looking as though he wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor. Even Bellatrix would've been better than this.

Harry drew the line at being paraded around the neighbourhood - he had some pride. But Petunia was tugging at him with all the strength of a determined bull, and the shoes she'd slipped him into were too big - Harry tripped over his own feet and stumbled backwards over the doorstep, stomach dropping and world slowing as he prepared himself for the hard fall. It never came.

Harry opened his eyes very, very slowly, and met Petunia's wide gaze. He was floating an inch over the floor. The 'bubble' popped at Harry's panic, and he dropped with a slight "oomph" of pain. He slowly got up, and waited for the shouts of 'freak' but they never came. Instead, Petunia's face twisted into a ... grin? "That," she said slowly. "was so. Cool. Do it again!" And then Petunia shoved him happily over. This time, Harry's magic did not appear.

"Sorry." said Petunia weakly at the hospital, sitting at one side of Harry's bed. Harry offered a sort of groan. "But," she said, dropping her voice to a not-so-hushed whisper, "it was worth it." Harry's stitched head did not agree. "Now we know we're magic! And ..." Petunia hesitated. "maybe you're not so bad for a boy."

She was a monster, one side of Harry argued - the side that flinched away from touch, and wanted a family more than anything. But a voice, that sounded suspiciously like Hermione, argued this wasn't Old Petunia. This Petunia wasn't truly awful, not yet. So Harry, against all his better judgment, wished as hard as he could for a peace offering.

A single flower plucked itself from the vase next to his bed, and wobbled slowly through the air to Petunia's hair. "Oh," she breathed in wonder, eyes sparkling, and Harry allowed himself a small grin in return. Because she wasn't so bad for a Petunia.


	2. Chapter 2

February 21st, 1969

Rose Evans was smiley and kind, flour smearing white into her brilliantly red hair. John Evans was stern with a harsh gaze - bred on war rations and air raids. Perhaps that made it all the more surprising, when it was Rose who snapped.

When Harry was nine he brought a flower back to life. He bled red back into withered petals, Petunia watching in wonder next to him, and scribbling down notes into a little notebook. It was slow work: each petal furling individually outwards, and they were far too caught up to hear calls for tea.

Rose Evan's calls died in her throat at the sight of them. But speech came back to her all too soon: "Witchcraft," she said, voice trembling and loaded with anger, and then she was dragging Harry, kicking and yelling, and all too afraid to hurt his mother with his own accidental magic.

She read to him from her lovingly held Bible, told Harry that witches burnt - that although he was a boy, he had still sinned. And then she 'beat it out of him'. Strong, relentless kicks, each one a burning impact on his side. Rose made Petunia - trembling and white-faced - watch. And then she held her daughter tenderly by the shoulders and said, "Do you understand 'Tuney?" Petunia looked determinedly at the ground. Soft fingers - brushed with sugar and yeast - tilted the child's chin upwards. "I said," came Rose's voice, steely. "do you understand?"

Petunia met her mother's gaze and nodded.

Though magic was wondrous and bright, she understood that some people were scared of it. She understood that she'd have to help Lyle hide it.

Rose, satisfied, left, her Bible held very carefully under arm and not a hair out of place. Petunia waited until their mother was out of sight to rush to Lyle's crumpled side. "Are you all right?" she asked worriedly.

"I'm fine, it's the others who were attacked by wrackspurts." he mumbled in response, with a twitch of a smile: some inside joke that had him laughing, which turned into hacking up little globlets of blood. Petunia very, very carefully helped Lyle up, and they made an odd, stumbling pair on the trek from the garden to his bedroom.

Then, she laid a cold washcloth over his head. "Rest." Petunia commanded, because she was the older sister and her word was law. Lyle hesitated as he always did, never quite letting his guard down, but eventually his eyes shut.

When his breathing deepened, Petunia took the red flower out her pocket and turned it over in pale hands. She'd meant to press it between the pages of her notebook, so she'd know what type of flower was magical - what she might be able to revive like Lyle later ('though magic never does work for you,' a small voice whispered mockingly in her head).

But that was the before. Petunia trod the flower beneath her foot. Magic was simply too dangerous.

July 16th, 1969

Severus Snape watched covetously, as a small boy walked through the park, his sister hurrying to catch up. When she did, she grabbed his wrist with white fingers: "Mother's going to be worried." she said primly. The boy shrugged her off a little too harshly (like Severus, he didn't like to be touched).

"We've got awhile yet." he said simply, and anticipation built in Severus. The other boy was going to use magic again, he knew he would. The sister knew it too, because her face was bleached of colour. "Mother doesn't like it." she tried again, something heavy and unsaid between them.

"But you do." he said simply, and there was no denying it, as the girl flushed with shame. Severus smirked. Of course a muggle would be in awe of their magic (except _him_, father greeted magic with fists and cigarette butts).

The boy broke into a run. Gravel broke away under foot, and legs pumped faster and faster, muscles tensing, faster still - and then he leapt, as high as the trees, and hovered in the air for a split second, face filled with utter bliss.

Severus couldn't help his loud whoop, as he emerged from the bushes: pallour sickly with greasy hair, clothed in second-hand clothes. Petunia screamed, and the boy crashed back down to earth with a muttered curse.

"I'm magic too," said Severus, trying to save the situation (and it was falling apart around him). He expected many things: wonder, or even fear.

He didn't expect the boy to snarl "Snape." with disgust and stalk off.

Harry loved flying. It may no longer be in his blood, but it made his magic _sing_. And in the grimy, industrial town of Cokeworth, a magic-propelled jump was the closest he could get.

Harry had known, objectively, that Snape lived in Cokeworth: he remembered Snape's pensive memories, and his fascination with Lily Evans. But he'd never expected to be nose - one exceptionally long - to nose with the greasy git himself.

It took everything Harry had not to curse the boy - so dejected, and small but still _Snape _\- like his magic ached to. Instead, Harry hissed through gritted teeth, and let Petunia drag him away.

When he was alone, finally, Harry toppled a tree with an angry wave of magic: because Snape could have saved Harry (if only he'd done more than contact Kreacher; gotten over a childish feud and checked on Sirius himself). Snape was a bully.

And Harry was even worse. He'd dragged his friends into danger - and they could be dead for all he knew: clever Hermione and brave Ron, passionate Ginny and even Loony Lovegood - Luna, Harry corrected himself. Just Luna.

No-one, not even Dumbledore, could expect Harry to befriend Snape as his mother once had Harry reasoned. But Harry knew another abused child when he saw one - bruises and oversized clothes - and he didn't have to like him, just make sure he stayed alive.

So a bemused Severus Snape found several beef sandwiches and a treacle tart addressed to him, and practically vibrated with excitement. There was no sender's address, but he didn't need one. This had the boy from the park written all over it. And the spark of excitement inside Severus grew into a tentative flame. A few miles away, Harry Potter shivered in horror.

AN: I think the story's going in an interesting direction (cue evil laughter), and thanks to those Accio-Cavy and nadasnape for reviewing - this chapter's for you.


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